


And Thus I Clothe My Naked Villainy

by LinearA



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Gen, Mention of suicidal behavior
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-09
Updated: 2018-09-09
Packaged: 2019-07-03 03:56:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15810831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LinearA/pseuds/LinearA
Summary: Kylo Ren will have an advocate for his defense at his trial. Still, Rey believes there's more he could do to help himself.





	And Thus I Clothe My Naked Villainy

It takes her some effort to get them. Nothing she can find is the right size, or if it is it’s the wrong color. So Rey does what she’s always done when she can’t find the thing she wants – she makes it out of other parts.

She takes the dress they gave her for the ceremony and rips open the seams, then cuts the top from the bottom. That leaves her with four pieces of dark blue fabric from the dress proper and four pieces of white thin stuff from the lining. With the dark blue she makes a short, open wrap with sleeves, and with some of the white she makes a wide belt to hold it closed.

She doesn’t know what to do for pants at first. (She supposes it probably should be pants.) After some searching, she finds a public cast-offs box, but it seems to be mostly children’s clothes. She could patchwork them together, but it would look distracting.

In the end, she bites her lip and slices up the long yards of linen she wears as a wrap. She uses what’s left of the lining from her dress when the yardage falls short.

The guard at Kylo Ren’s cell looks apprehensive, but she lets Rey in. He’s sitting on his bed, facing the wall. He turns his head towards her but he meets her eyes only for a second.

“Here,” she says, and holds her work out to him. “For your trial.”

He stares at the clothes. She pushes them on him, makes him take them. She is determined. She will do everything she can for him, to make sure he’s seen as he should be seen. Not as a threatening shadow, but as a man. Small, in the order of things; six meagre feet in the face of thousands of systems lightyears across.

His hands clench into the fabric. He tugs at the bundle, spilling the clothes across his lap. He looks down at them. Blue robe, white belt, dark grey linen pants with a narrow white stripe along the seams. A civilian’s clothes, inefficient or even dangerous in battle.

“I should have brought a cord,” she realizes, “for your hair. I’ll get one.” She turns to go out again.

“No.” There’s disdain written all over his long face. His red lip curls. His hands are fists around the cloth. “I won’t wear _this.”_

She flushes. She knows she didn’t get all the stains all the way out. Her stitches are loose in places, too tight in others, and she doesn’t know how to do the flat double seams she sees on other people’s clothes sometimes. Nothing is lined, or shaped. She sees how crude it must look to him. But her _wrap_ – she’ll never get it back the way it was.

“Fine. That’s fine,” she says. “You don’t have to; I’ll take them away and I’ll look for something – ”

She stops. She’s trying to take the clothes away from him, but he won’t let them go. He’s staring at them, his face frozen.

“No,” is all he says, in his deep rough voice.

“If you don’t want them,” she says impatiently, “give them back. I’ll find other ones.”

He’s rubbing his fingers in the fabric of the pants. “This is your – did you _make_ these?”

She blushes even harder. Bad enough that he should scorn what she’s brought him; does he have to point out how crude her efforts are? Her amateurism really is obvious, when she looks at them. She tugs on the clothes, but his grip is tight.

“Yes,” she says, “now let them go. I’ll look for something better.”

“No,” he says, and clutches them to his chest. His tone is so childish, his timbre so adult, that she lets the clothes go out of confusion. He holds the clothes to him as if they were precious. She stares at him.

“If you don’t want them, why won’t you let me take them?”

He looks away. His temper tantrums are so strange; she shouldn’t be trying to find logic in them. She should just walk away; she can come back in an hour, and they’ll be in some corner where he’s thrown them, and she can rescue them then. Unless he decides to shred them.

“You made these,” he says again. “For me.”

“You can’t go to trial looking like that!” she pleads. Even if he hates what she’s brought him, even if it is crude, it’s still better than what he’s wearing. He's curled on his bed like a child, clutching hand-stitched clothes to his chest, and even so he looks dangerous and powerful in his layers of black. The impression of villainous strength can only hurt him in the courtroom. Surely he understands that? “Even if I can get you clothes that are just a different color – ”

“No,” he says again, surly and stubborn. “These are my clothes, and I’m wearing them.”

“But Ben – ”

“This is who I am,” he says, softer. “This is who I made myself. Everyone knows what it means. To wear black, to wear armor. Squared-off shoulders; heavy belts. People know what it means. I chose it. They should see that. Anything else… wouldn’t be true.”

“But that’s not _all_ you are.”

“They’re not there to judge me as a person. They’re there to judge me for my crimes. I made myself a criminal. They should see that.” He’s rubbing his fingers in the fabric again. “This – this is your wrap. Where did the blue and the white come from?”

“They gave me a dress,” she tells him. “There was some kind of ceremony, and they wanted me to look… better than I usually do. It was blue, with a white lining.”

“I see.” He spreads the top out on his lap, tracing the seams. “Fitted? And the neck was low. With long sleeves?”

“Yes,” she says. He really must know about clothes. No wonder he doesn’t want to wear her sewing.

“My mother wore something like it, I think.” His voice is a murmur. “Before I was born. Only all white.” She doesn’t know what to say. When he looks up at her, his eyes are hot. “You shouldn’t have cut it up.”

“But I – ” She tries again to take the clothes from him, and again he won’t let them go.

“You should have kept it. And your wrap; you should have saved them; worn them. Are there any holos?” He looks down at the clothes again, toying with them.

“Probably somewhere.” She can’t follow him. Then she sees the way his hands are pawing at the clothes, judging them, the way he’s running the belt through his fingers, and through the haze of her annoyance and concern a terrible thought dawns on her. _”You can’t,”_ she gasps, then says again, more sternly, “you can’t. I won’t let you.”

“I didn’t ask to see,” he says, sulky again, “I just asked if there _were_ any.”

“No,” she insists, “don’t pretend. You can’t keep the clothes if you’re just going to… hurt yourself with them. I won’t let you. I’ll stay here and watch you the whole time if I have to, but I _will_ keep you alive.”

He breathes deeply. At length he turns his face to hers again. His eyes look wet. “I won’t,” he tells her. “If I wanted to, there are sheets on the bed. But I won’t.” He hesitates. "I promise." She sighs, and relaxes a little. “Would you really stay? And make sure I didn’t die before the court commanded?”

She has to make him understand. She climbs onto the bed with him, puts her hands over his. He looks down, watching her clutch his hands as his hands clutch her work. “They might not, Ben. It’s not a given. We have to make them see.”

“See?” he says blankly. “Oh. It will be as the Force wills it.”

“Yes, but we can – ”

“You made these for me,” he repeats. “Out of your own clothes. I can’t wear them. But let me keep them. Please.” He looks at her and his lip trembles. His voice sinks to a whisper. “Please, Rey. Let me keep them. You can have them back – later. Soon.”

 _When I’m dead,_ she knows he means. Her eyes are wet now too. His hands under hers are shaking with tension, and she can feel his pain in the Force; he’s always been afraid, and he’s afraid now. Afraid to die, and afraid to be left alone. He thinks this will help.

She gentles her hands on his, and feels relief flow through him. “All right,” she says.

He doesn’t thank her. He doesn’t say anything. He runs the belt through his fingers over and over again.

* * *

She asks to be the one to take him to his trial. When she comes to get him, he’s standing upright, booted feet firmly planted. He’s wearing not only his stiff black tunic, his black arm-guards, his black pants, his heavy black belt. He’s put on his ragged black cowl, and pulled the hood over his head. She opens her mouth to reproach, yell, plead with him. His eyes, under the shadow of the hood, reflect too much light. She feels his fear, and his determination, and then he locks himself away from her. But he casts his eyes down, suppliant. Begging her not to stop him.

She walks to him and stands on tip-toe, pulls his head down so that she can kiss his forehead. He trembles.

She opens the door for him, and he nods.

* * *

When he takes his place, the jury takes a collective breath in. His advocate blanches. The judges look him over keenly, and then the one closest to him leans forward.

“The prisoner will please remove his outer garment in deference to the court.”

The prisoner hesitates. And then he bows his head and removes his cowl. He folds it neatly, and holds it in front of him.

“I defer to the wishes of the court,” he says, low but steady.

Rey can only just see, under his lowered head, that the top fastening of his tunic is undone, and a band of something soft and white is wrapped around his throat.

The trial begins.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from _Richard III._


End file.
